


Kissing it better

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Q used to briefly work for MI5 at the beginning of his promising career in espionage, a bit of character study, lazy morning in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So how does a wunderkind boffin get shot?” he purrs into Q’s ear, and Q hums, amused.</i>
</p><p> <i>“You can blame MI5 for that one.”</i></p><p> <i>“I intend to,” Bond growls protectively, tightening his embrace round Q’s waist for a moment.</i></p><p>-</p><p>Q has a few small scars on his hands and arms from all his tinkering with prototypes, but one scar catches Bond's attention, and he makes inquiries during one lazy morning in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing it better

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick drabble about a Q headcanon I have :)

* * *

Contrary to what one might expect of a computer geek and programming genius, Q does have a few scars, most of them gained in the employ of MI6. Because Q isn’t just a programmer - he’s also an engineer. In fact, he holds a masters degree in engineering while none whatsoever in computer sciences (he’d told Bond once that he decided to go for a direction where he could learn something new, and most of what the universities offered on programming he already had taught himself).

The scars are mostly located on his hands and forearms - the marks left by his tinkering. Barely visible, slender cuts from sharp objects, small and faint burns left by inattentively handled soldering irons, one or two also by a live wire that snuck out to touch skin. Every now and then Bond comes home to kiss a new sticking plaster on a wrist or a bandage wrapped around a hand or several fingers. And considering the number of bizarre shenanigans Bond has witnessed going on at Q-Branch during the experimental phases of prototype development, it really is surprising Q has merely a dozen or so scars in total.

He’s also got a nick under his jawline from a prototype that exploded on him, and an obligatory scar on his shin from a bicycling accident as a kid.

One scar stands out, though - a jagged, horizontal line on his left bicep, quite a few years old, and very definitely intriguing and unmistakeable in origin. Bond knows a bullet graze scar when he sees one. But while all the other scars on Q’s person are easily explained due to his work, this one poses something of a question.

Bond had noticed it, vaguely and on the peripheries, the first time he _finally_ got to strip Q out of those mercilessly ugly clothes, but he didn’t think about it at all. To be fair, his mind was entirely preoccupied with admiring Q naked, as well as with another, far more tantalising discovery of an intricate half-sleeve tattoo on his other bicep.

The subject of the scar comes up a few months later, with their relationship freshly but firmly established and Bond all but moved in into Q’s flat (which for a while now he’s been thinking of as _home_ ). They’re idling away a rare free morning in bed, warm and showered and comfortable after a slow round of lazy sex. They’re ensconced nicely in bed, naked under the duvet, Bond with his back propped up against the headboard and Q leaning back against his chest as he types noncommittally on his laptop. Q’s morning cup of earl grey steams languidly on the nightstand beside. There’s nothing either of them has to urgently take care of today. The morning can be as abundantly idle and prolonged as they wish. Q is a steady, pleasant weight against his chest, the silence easy and soft between them in the pale spring sunlight sifting in through the window. Bond feels good.

He playfully grazes Q’s shoulder with his teeth, and he can see a corner of Q’s lips tug in a smile. Then, he rubs his thumb over the scar on his left bicep.

“So how does a wunderkind boffin get shot?” he purrs into Q’s ear, and Q hums, amused.

“You can blame MI5 for that one.”

“I intend to,” Bond growls protectively, tightening his embrace round Q’s waist for a moment.

Q chuckles and closes his laptop, shuffling a little until he’s mostly sideways against Bond, facing him better. The laptop (and the large, flat book stashed under it, because god forbid Q places his laptop directly on the bedding without protecting the vents) slides off his legs, safe on the bed.

“Back when I was with Five, there was an operation - an interrupted intelligence drop between two domestic terrorist cells. The intel was in a briefcase secured with a fairly complex - back then, mind - electronic mechanism, all hooked up to a small explosive that would destroy the contents if the case was forced open, or if it was taken outside a certain range. It was down in Clapham, just by the park. So MI5 had me wrapped in Kevlar and shipped out on the site - it was fairly safe, I knew what I was doing, and the explosive wouldn't even burn my hands,” Q dismissively waves off Bond’s raised eyebrow. “But no one thought to check the nearby roofs for snipers, apparently,” he adds with a tetchy twist to his mouth and tone.

“Oh?” Bond can easily see where this is going, and he thinks about the vague disdain Q had shown for field work back in the Gallery, during their first meeting.

“I got shot in the arm first,” the word ‘first’ makes Bond perk up in slight alarm, even though he logically knows it all ended just fine, since he’s right here, holding Q whole and healthy and snarking in his arms. “The Kevlar was a waistcoat, a vest, so,” he makes a face. “And then I got hit again, right in the back - had a bloody awful bruise between my shoulder blades for a couple weeks.”

He frowns, pondering. Bond can tell the story is not very traumatic for him, but understandably it’s far from being a pleasant anecdote.

“It knocked me over - lucky I didn’t chip my teeth, actually. I don’t remember very much about it, but I do remember that I didn’t think I was dead. But I thought I _will_ die, in just a second, because I just got shot, and I remember I didn’t _want_ to know that. I didn’t want to be aware of dying, didn’t want my last thoughts to be the awareness that I’m about to die. And then they brought me around and sat me down while someone did first aid on me and somebody else took the sniper out. And then I finished the job.”

“So would that be why you don’t do field work?” Bond pulls him closer and Q settles more comfortably against him.

“Not the only reason, but definitely one of them. Not all of us enjoy collecting bullets the doctors dug out of us,” he smirks, and Bond slides one hand lower under the covers to pinch him on the arse in retaliation.

Q squawks and squirms, giggling a bit, and after a brief, happy tousle Bond has him sprawled on his back, sheets twisted around both of them as Bond pins him gently with a grin. Q’s dark hair is mussed among the pillows, and he’s smiling, his breathing quickened, green eyes alight and mischievous behind the crooked glasses. Bond’s heart flutters and feels brighter than ever. He leans in to nip at Q’s collarbone, and Q squirms again, laughing a little bit.

“Oi! Laptop, laptop,” he alerts, the computer precariously close to sliding off the bed due to their bout of wrestling. Bond is a kind and considerate partner, so he sits up, straddling Q’s hips, and deposits the laptop safely on the floor. To be honest, it would have survived the drop just fine, because Q had built it like a brick, but again - Bond is considerate. Despite what anyone else might say.

With that sorted, Bond takes a moment to admire Q from this angle - his broad shoulders, the colourful tattoo, the graceful torso narrowing down to a delectably slim waist. But it doesn’t last long, because Bond wants _closer_ , so he swoops down, once again stretched out on top of Q who hums and runs his hands over Bond’s back.

Bond noses at the bullet scar and then plants a long, lingering kiss on it.

“What are you doing?” Q’s voice twinkles with amusement, and when Bond looks up, so do his eyes.

“Kissing it better,” he purrs with a sultry smile, and then proceeds to do it again.

Q laughs, the sound easy and happy in the playful morning, and he runs a hand through Bond’s hair in _just_ the way he likes best. Bond isn’t ashamed to hum into it.

They kiss for a long while, unhurried and enjoying themselves very much, hands roaming for no other reason than simply affection and soft contentment. Bond is happy. And when Q adoringly rubs their noses together and looks into his eyes with a smile, Bond knows Q is happy, too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not very happy with the last paragraph, but I honestly couldn't come up with anything better.
> 
> Also - I very much headcanon that Q has some gorgeous ink, and I have WIP about this that's been cooking for about a thousand years now. Hopefully, I'll get it out eventually :)


End file.
